


And let the sea birds cry

by Swordsandspindles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, aftermath of witcher potions, because LALALA I CANNOT HEAR YOU NOTHING HAPPENED EVERYTHING IS FINE, no beta we die like men who crave instant gratification, they went to the coast instead, we talk about our feelings only via the metaphor of stories because that’s safer, writing stories to procrastinate on other stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordsandspindles/pseuds/Swordsandspindles
Summary: Let's head to the coast, Jaskier suggested.So they did.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 286
Collections: Best Geralt





	And let the sea birds cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kat_fanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic/gifts).



> For kat_fanfic - not the story I had planned to write for you, but I hope this is acceptable, too. <3

It was very early morning when Geralt, only moderately bruised and battered, returned to the rackety old inn with the warped roof and crawled right under the faded quilts of their shared bed to rest his clammy forehead against Jaskier’s neck. He didn’t bother cleaning up. The bard grumbled protest in his sleep and turned around to draw the witcher closer. He smelled like sand and sea salt.

“Everything work out alright?” Jaskier mumbled, more asleep than awake.

Geralt gave a low rumble of affirmation against Jaskier’s collarbone and the bard sighed quietly.

“Tell me in the morning.”

Geralt thought of the pale sunlight already creeping over the horizon, but chose not to mention it. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to Jaskier’s breathing, already slowing down again as the bard slipped back into sleep.

When they awoke again the tiny attic chamber had grown warm already, and bright, golden sunlight was flooding through its crooked window, holding the promise of another hot August day. Dust motes danced lazily in the air and the quiet bustle of the inn and the market outside drifted up to the chamber, mingled with the impertinent cries of seagulls. Jaskier stretched his back, trying not to disturb the witcher he was using as his personal pillow, and peered up to him.

“You have blood on your face,” he said.

“Not mine,” Geralt said, eyes still closed against the glaring light, his voice unusually raw and scratchy.

There was indeed quite a lot of dried blood on his temple and in his hair. He was still slightly cool to the touch despite the warmth of the room, and paler than usual, but his muscles didn’t twitch from overexertion any more, having been forced into compliance far beyond normal human endurance.

“That is not as reassuring as you might think it is,” Jaskier said mildly and eyed him critically. 

“Lapwing?” he asked quietly. The witcher hummed reluctantly, a confirmation and rebuke in one. _Let it go, Jaskier. It was necessary._

“This potion shit will kill you one day,” the bard murmured and gently disentangled himself from the witcher’s arms to reach down to the floor where a jug of water and a chipped cup sat.

He poured a cup, adding a generous amount of amber liquid from another vial he had set out the night before, but didn’t manage to make the witcher drink the concoction: Geralt had taken the opportunity to sling his arms around Jaskier’s midriff and crawl fully into his arms, bearing him inexorably down into the pillows, pressing his head against his sternum. Jaskier made an exaggerated huffing noise and swatted at his arms, then sighed, and rested the full cup against Geralt’s back while cradling his neck with the other.

They lay like that for a while, each drifting in his own thoughts. The bard was humming an aimless melody under his breath and stroked Geralt’s tangled hair, his neck, tracing the old familiar scar on it. Slowly, very slowly, the witcher’s body finally warmed up again under the bard’s careful hands and he huffed a deep sigh. There was still a faint burn in his muscles, but it was fading already. He took careful inventory of the other aches and pains in his body, but didn’t find anything too offensive. Small scratches and abrasions, a twisted ankle, bruises all down his right side where the kraken had crushed him against the side of the dock. Nothing that called for immediate attention, though the water and the amber potion, he admitted to himself, would certainly help neutralising the last lingering effects of the lapwing. But that would require moving, and that would absolutely not do.

Jaskier’s hum turned into aimless chatter, scraps of verse and half-finished stanzas, a meandering story about a sea monster and a fisherman who fell in love, against all odds and better judgement and after a considerable amount of pining on both sides. It was hopelessly sentimental, utter and complete nonsense, of course, but the witcher still listened closely while trying to give the impression that he wasn’t paying attention at all.

“You see, the sea monster wasn’t used to people being nice to him without any hidden agenda, so he was quite frightened, plus he had just lost his friend, and didn’t know how to tell the fisherman – Geralt? Is that seaweed?” Jaskier asked suddenly, stopping his ministrations and story and picked the offending plant out of Geralt’s hair. He made fake retching noises.

“Eugh, oh, get off of me, you oaf. Oh, this is disgusting. Oh, no.”

“You were the one who had wanted to head to the coast,” Geralt grinned, but reluctantly sat up again, stretching his stiff muscles.

He emptied the cup Jaskier pressed into his hands, and then a second, and a third.

“To the _coast_ , yes, not right into the ocean, and all the disgusting creatures creeping around in it,” Jaskier protested.

Geralt placed the cup back down on the floor and tilted his head.

“You didn’t find the sirens that disgusting,” he pointed out.

Jaskier’s face took on a slightly dreamy quality and he sighed.

“Oh, them, no, no...”

“Hey,” Geralt said and prodded his arm. “Focus.”

“Hm?”

“You were telling me about the message the lovesick sea monster sent to the fisher. By seagull, I have to point out.”

Jaskier grinned at him.

“So you were listening after all?” he cooed.

“No,” Geralt sniffed. “It’s rubbish. And seagulls are assholes, better use a raven.”

“Well, it’s set by the sea, so it was a seagull.”

“It’s always ravens in stories.”

“Oh, _oh_ , and you are an expert in stories, now, are you?” teased Jaskier and Geralt rolled his eyes.

But he also reached over to pull Jaskier down to him again, settling him in the crook of his arm, letting his hands roam his sides, the planes of his stomach, down to his hip bones.

“Do not roll your eyes at me, sir witcher, I saw that. And do not distract me from my important poetic endeavours – especially not before you haven’t cleaned this mess from your person… ah… Geralt…”

Whatever poetic endeavours he was thinking about, they were smothered as Geralt unceremoniously heaved the both of them around, tangling them up in quilts and blankets. He set his knee between Jaskier’s thighs and bent down to press his lips carefully against the skin below the bard’s ear. Jaskier moaned faintly and freed his arms to throw them around Geralt’s shoulders.

“Do you think the fisherman will regret it, binding himself to the sea monster?” the witcher asked quietly against his neck.

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier whispered back. “The fisherman had lots of time to think about this.”

Geralt sighed, a deep sound of contentment and relief which he would absolutely deny if ever asked, and slowly ran his lips up the side of Jaskier’s neck, following the line of his jaw, to finally reach his open, waiting lips.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?” Jaskier whispered against his mouth.

“I can guess how it ends. Let me show you,” Geralt murmured, voice gone low and hoarse again, and kissed him.

“I think this was my best idea yet, heading to the coast,” Jaskier said, slightly out of breath, as they paused to remove the tangled quilts, and most of their clothing, from their bodies.

Geralt, still poised above him, rumbled something that might have been agreement. He didn’t bother with a proper answer, dedicating his attention to the hollow of the other man’s throat instead. The bard tilted his head back and grinned at the ceiling.

“Who knows what kind of tragic bullshit you might have gotten us into otherwise?”

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn’t what I had planned on writing today, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
